At dawn their small party left, along with their guards and two donkeys who carried picnic delicacies from the Landreg kitchens. The four mages rode silently, saving their conversational skills for the day ahead. When they reached Dragonstone, they were rewarded for their early ride. Berenene, as wide-awake as she had been the day before, took them on a tour of the fortress ruins.
Every inch of the crumbling great hall and the inner bailey had received attention by gardeners. In pockets between stones Briar found tiny, ground-hugging flowers with spiky white petals, rockroses, and pinks. Trickles of water ran over mossy stones, or formed small waterfalls that dropped into pools set in what must have been the dungeon level of the castle. Small willows and dwarf maple trees grew on the grounds, shading ponds and benches. Everything fit the ruins but did not obscure them.
It’s a pity Berenene loves orchids so, Briar thought, trailing loving fingers over the happiest jasmine vine he’d ever met. She could create the perfect shakkan garden.
“Do you like it?” Berenene asked, coming up next to him. “This was the garden I had as a girl—the only thing my father would let me tend. I lived in the gatekeeper’s lodge and studied with the Sisterhood of Qunoc in the temple on the shore, until my older brother died and I became the heir. I built on this place for years. Now I have gardeners to tend it, but any changes are done to my request.”
“I think you’re wasted as an empress,” Briar said without thinking. He winced, then grinned at her when her only reaction was laughter.
“Spoken like my gardeners,” she said. “I’m honored. And if you see anything that requires attention, please let me know. I’ll be in your debt.”
Briar, who knew what privilege she had just given him, bowed low. I’ll make her a shakkan garden for the palace, he thought. A miniature of this one. It will take work, but she’s worth it.
Looking at him from beneath lowered lashes, Berenene asked, “Could you do better, with your potions and spells?”
Briar gaped at her, genuinely shocked. He quickly recovered and asked, “Why would I want to tamper with perfection? All this is yours, with your shaping on it. I’d no more change it than I would change you.”
Berenene looked down. Finally she said softly, “A mage who does not think magic betters everything. I am not certain I can bear the shock.” She took his hand and ran a finger along the lines in his palm. “I could make you the greatest gardener in the world, you know. I could place the resources of the empire at your disposal.” She placed her finger against his lips. “Don’t say anything now. I don’t want an answer now. But think about it—think what being my chief gardener could mean. I will ask again this summer, I assure you.” She stepped away. “I’ll see you at midday, Briar.”
Dazed, Briar watched her as she made her way back to Sandry, who was taking a drink of water from a well. Today Berenene was dressed for spring in a leaf green undergown and a cream-colored overgown embroidered with gold flowers. She’s the most beautiful thing in this garden, he thought wistfully. But she’s not for the likes of me. I know what the girls think—that I’d bed her if I could. But she’s too grand. Too glorious. I would rather leave her be than get all disillusioned when I find out she’s human.
A sharp elbow caught him in the ribs. He turned. Caidy glared at him, her hazel eyes fiery. “I’m away one night and you forget all about me?” she asked dangerously, roses of temper blooming on her ivory cheeks. “You’re setting up to storm the palace when the castle was half-won.”
“I got discouraged,” he told her, trying to look penitent. “You defend your castle so well. Besides, aren’t you used to everyone being in love with her?”
“Everyone better not be thinking of kissing me, then,” she warned. “Because I’m fresh out of kisses. I’ll go see if Jak has any.”
She marched away, chin in the air.
Briar grinned. I do like a girl with some thorns to her. Better still, a real girl, one I can kiss instead of worship. Worship’s all well and good, but it doesn’t keep a fellow warm when the night turns cold. I’ll have to think of something to make Caidy happy again.
Thinking about what he might create to draw a smile from her, he carefully descended the stairs that led through the long-vanished floors down to the water pools.
After the tour of the garden, the company broke up into various groups. To Daja’s surprise, Berenene went off to confer with secretaries at midmorning. It seemed that the empress’s secretaries followed her everywhere and conducted business from horseback, if necessary. Fortunately for them, she thought, they don’t have to work in the saddle while there’s a lodgekeeper’s house on the grounds.
Ambros, Ealaga, and some of the older nobles had gone off to sun themselves on a ruined terrace circled by lilacs and bitter orange bushes in full bloom. Up on the rim of the same terrace, Daja could see Tris and Ishabal in animated conversation.
Probably about something that comes only in words of ten syllables, Daja thought with amusement. It looks like that kind of talk.
Daja herself stood on the edge of a cropped grass circle. All around its rim lazed younger nobles on drop cloths. At the circle’s heart were Rizu and some other young ladies who played a ball-tossing game. Daja was happy just to watch, leaning on her Trader staff. She had brought it to make her way over uneven ground, to poke under stones to ensure that no early rising snakes lurked in wait, and to show to Rizu. When she had discovered that each marking on a Trader’s staff stood for part of the person’s life, Rizu had made Daja promise to tell some of the stories about her markings. Now Daja watched her catch the ball gracefully and toss it high, enjoying her new friend’s joy in the beauty of the day and the setting.
Movement drew her eye past the ring of laughing noblewomen. Three men had turned to listen to a fourth. Something about that fourth man’s excitement, the way he spoke with one hand raised to cover the movements of his mouth, and the slyly eager looks exchanged by his companions, told Daja there was trouble afoot. When they all ran off around the ruins of a wall, she was certain of it. As a Trader and as a mage she knew the look of overgrown boys up to wickedness.
As Berenene had led the tour, she had kept Briar at her side. Some of the courtiers—including three of the ones who had just left—had been displeased by the attention the empress gave Briar. Many of those courtiers had also grumbled when Berenene took Briar into her greenhouses, where they were forbidden to go. Traders were taught from the cradle to notice who complained and when: Often those were the people who led the attacks on Traders. Now the empress was occupied, and Briar was nowhere within view.
Briar? Daja called down the withered thread that remained of their old bond. She heard and felt nothing. You’d think you want people to know you were all right, she added tartly. There was still no reply.
Daja sent a pulse of magic along their connection to see where the bond led. Walking slowly, sending magic along the tie in waves, she followed it into the garden. She didn’t realize it, but she was twirling her staff in a circle, hand over hand, loosening her muscles in preparation for a fight.
She had to climb over four walls, apologizing to flowers as she stepped on them. I hope the empress doesn’t learn this was me, she thought as she fluffed a patch of moss she had crushed. I’ll have Briar fix these when I find him.
Down two sets of ruined stairs she went, then along an open inner gallery now used as a rose trellis. The thread led her up another set of stairs, or rather, it went through the stairs; Daja had to climb them and jump down from a six-foot wall. She walked among some trees into a clearing by a stream. Young noblemen stood there in a half circle. They watched Briar, who faced one of the men who so often watched the empress.
Olfeon fer…something, Daja remembered. Master of the Armory. The one who gets the cream from Namorn’s armorers when it’s time to buy weapons for the imperial guards. Is he one of the empress’s ex-lovers, the jealous sort Rizu mentioned?
“—as I thought,” Olfeon said, contempt in
his voice. “You mages are all cowards. If you have to take on a real man, you can only do it with your stinking magic.”
Briar’s six inches shorter than this kaq, thought Daja as she moved into a space in the half-circle. The men next to her were too interested in the brewing fight to do more than glance at her. But they’re muscled about the same, Daja thought as she continued to measure Briar against Olfeon. He may be a warrior sort—that scar on his cheek isn’t some lady’s kiss.
Briar raised his eyebrows. “Of course, if you think so, how could I possibly disagree?” he asked politely. He’d shifted his weight so he was balanced properly. “Look, are you trying to challenge me to a duel or something? Because if you are, could you get it over with? And if you aren’t, would you go away? There’s blight in that patch of speedwell over there, and I’d like to get rid of it before Her Imperial Majesty sees it and gets upset.”
“Duel?” snapped Olfeon. “With you, guttersnipe?”
Stinking kaq, thought Daja in disgust.
Olfeon continued: “I’d no more duel with a peasant like you than I’d duel with dog dung on my boot. Duels are for noblemen. I’ll just have my lackeys whip you. And if you go whining to Her Imperial Majesty about it, you won’t live to make it to the border.”
The men who watched laughed. Daja wrinkled her nose in disgust. Civilized Namornese my eye, she thought with disdain. They treat their women like property and outsiders like idiots. They deserve a lesson or two. She leaned on her staff with a smile and waited.
Briar looked over at her. “I can handle this myself,” he said, eyes glittering in anger. “I don’t need imperial protection—or yours.”
Even a former street rat has his pride, Daja told herself. To Briar, she said, “I’m just here to take wagers, if he’ll actually deign to trade blows with you.” She looked at the other noblemen. “I’ll bet gold that my friend hurts this kaq if it comes to a fistfight.”
“You’ll lose your money. We don’t wager with Trader mage spawn,” said one of the nobles.
The two closest to her kept their mouths shut as the others laughed. My neighbors fear my magic, not my staff, but it’s still rather sweet of them to be scared, Daja thought. Aloud she said, “Oh—too bad, because I’m giving five-to-one odds on a fistfight between my friend and yours. You know Traders don’t wager money they don’t have.” She looked at Olfeon and sighed. “I forgot. You won’t fight a commoner, even bare-handed.”
“You both need a lesson!” snapped Olfeon. He glared at the other men. “Bet, rot your eyes!” To Briar, he said, “When I leave you as jelly, get your friend here to pack you in a basket and send you home. Have we a bargain?”
Briar spat on his palm and offered it with an evil grin. It was a way for street rats to conclude a deal.
It was not the way Namornese noblemen sealed their oaths. Olfeon produced a handkerchief and let one end of it hang. “You may grab that,” he said impatiently. “Wipe your hand, while you’re at it.” He pointed to Daja. “No magic from you, either. These two?” He pointed to two men. “They see that nonsense. The fight will be forfeit in my favor if they catch either of you trying it.”
“Don’t think much of mages, do they?” Briar asked. He gave the handkerchief a sharp yank, then retreated to take off his boots and stockings.
“Apparently not. Let me know if you want me to ignore the rules. For you I’ll bash a couple of heads,” Daja offered. Olfeon sat on a rock to take off his own boots and stockings.
“You were always the most commonsensical of my sisters, ” Briar said with a grunt as he worked a boot free. “If they kill me, just break their knees. They’re not worth a death sentence.” His second boot was off. Next he began to remove his knives, starting with the two he reached through the pockets of his breeches, and ending with the flat one that lay just below the nape of his neck under his shirt. There were eight in the pile when he finished, not including the pair he’d left in his boots. The nobles stared at the blades in shock. Briar continued, “Though, if you smack ’em on the head, the skull will cave in because there’s nothing to hold it up, and then you can sell ’em to Her Imperial Majesty as planters.”
Daja eyed the noblemen, who looked as if they would be glad to leap on Briar at this very moment. “Wagers, gentlemen?” she asked coolly.
She carried a small tablet and a stick of charcoal in a holder in an inner pocket of her tunic, in case she got the urge to design something. She used them now to record wagers, making sure each man wrote his name down clearly.
They were almost ready when she heard a familiar voice snap, “What is going on here?”
She looked up. It was that fellow Shan, the one who was the empress’s current lover.
Olfeon, who had stripped off his coat and was rolling up his sleeves, glared at the newcomer. “Not your affair, fer Roth.”
“Do you think she’ll be gratified if you kill her pet gardener?” Shan demanded. “She’ll be livid.”
“For all I know, she’ll be vexed with me if I dent one of her playtoys,” Briar said.
“Silence, clodhopper!” snapped Olfeon.
Briar looked at Daja and sniffed. “He’s so mean,” he said plaintively.
Daja tucked her tablet and the charcoal holder away. “I noticed that. You should be very offended and hit him first.”
As they had meant it to—it was how they’d have played it in the old days, when they were bonded—this exchange brought Olfeon hurtling at Briar, hands outstretched. Briar let him get almost close enough to touch, then twisted to the side and smashed his knee into Olfeon’s belly.
Daja watched with interest as the fight continued. He learned a lot while he was away, she thought as Briar used new throws and twists to slam Olfeon to the ground time after time.
He knew better than to let the bigger man get both hands on him. Then Olfeon would use his superior weight and height to drag Briar down. Instead, Briar aimed for nerve points he had studied for medicine, added to his old street fighter’s arsenal of tricks. At the end of the fight, Briar’s foot rested on Olfeon’s neck, pressing the right side of his face into the grass as Olfeon flailed wildly. When he tried to grab Briar’s leg, Briar pressed harder. The Namornese collapsed at last, starved for air. Daja made the final tally. Briar had a black eye, several cuts, a split lip, ripped clothes, bruises, and perhaps a sprained knee. Olfeon had facial cuts, a sprained wrist, a broken nose, ripped clothes, and his own collection of bruises.
“Pay me by the end of today,” Daja called to the losing bettors. “I won’t take signatures in place of real coin, and I’m cross when people think to cheat me.” She looked around, about to call for Sandry to fix the clothes, when she saw her sister being handed down the stairs by Shan. Quenaill followed Sandry, a scowl on his long face.
As they approached, Shan said to Briar and Olfeon, “Did you think I’d leave you both to face Her Imperial Majesty in this condition? Clehame Sandry will see to your clothes, Quen to your wounds.”
You just did it for an excuse to have Sandry hold you by the arm, Daja thought cynically. I bet you couldn’t care less for Briar or the other fellow.
Sandry glared at the two battered young men. “What was this about?”
Briar glared back. “Namornese sheep,” he retorted. “He claimed Namorn breeds sheep that think for themselves.”
“We fought over his right to wear that medallion,” said Olfeon. “Right, lads?”
The young men nodded. Through their magical connection Daja told Sandry, It was over the empress. I suppose she would be vexed with Olfeon if she knew.
Sandry shook her head. As if I would believe they would have a fistfight over Briar’s right to wear the mage medallion. They must think I drink stupid potion for my morning pick-me-up.
She walked briskly over to Briar. “I didn’t make those clothes for brawls,” she told him irritably. “I didn’t think even you could find a fight at the court of Namorn.” She set her hand on the ripped seam that had once joined slee
ve to shirt. A rough tear over Briar’s knee was already starting to weave itself back together as grass and dirt stains trickled off his clothes.
“Well, you’re forever underestimating me,” Briar told her. “If there’s a fight about, it’s nearly guaranteed I’ll be in it.”
Sandry looked over at Olfeon. “You were lucky,” she said sharply. “He could have ripped you to pieces with thorns if he wanted.”
“No, no,” protested Briar, his eyes warning Sandry to be silent. “Blood’s horrible for grass, and there’s always some thorns left after. Don’t mind her,” he told Olfeon. “Girls have no appreciation for the rules of combat.”
Olfeon spat on the ground in disgust, then winced as Quenaill set to work healing his wounds. “Hold still and be silent,” Quenaill said, frowning. “The quicker this is done the better, unless you want to spend the winter in a log cabin on the Sea of Grass.”
“She says if we have that much spirit we can use it to fight the Yanjing emperor,” Shan explained to Sandry. No one doubted that “she” was the empress. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked Briar.
“Everywhere,” Briar replied, grinning at the tall huntsman. “And isn’t it a good thing for me?”
A tap on the back made Daja turn. Some of the men who had bet against her waited to pay their wagers.
They spent the rest of that week riding between Sablaliz and Landreg, attending social occasions with the imperial court. Finally, one night after a late supper at Landreg, Sandry looked at Ambros and Ealaga, then at her exhausted companions and guards, who wearily picked through their meals.
“I’m sorry,” she told her cousin and his wife. “But she’s going to kill us at this rate, or our horses, at the very least. The court is returning to the palace in Dancruan. We must go with them, I think. Her Imperial Majesty has invited us to stay at the palace. I don’t believe I can refuse politely.”